


Cold Front

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1343668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is mostly rubbish at relationships. Sherlock doesn't particularly care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Front

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eloquy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloquy/gifts).



> Written for Eloquy as a birthday present. Happy birthday, friend!
> 
> And for anyone reading who isn't Eloquy: this fic isn't kind to Mycroft. Don't read further if that's going to be an issue.

It shouldn’t have surprised Greg when Sherlock showed up at the crime scene with someone in tow. 

He’d specifically told Sherlock to come alone - not that Sherlock was indiscreet, but their dead man was a politician and John was a popular blogger. If word leaked out before the Yard was ready to make an announcement, Greg wanted to make sure there was no way Sherlock’s name could be dragged through the mud because of it. 

But Sherlock, apparently, had completely ignored his request, and Greg fought down irritation.

“Oi! What’s she doing here?” he called. 

It came out harsher than Greg had intended. Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him while he lifted the crime scene tape for Mary, who ducked under it. 

“John’s busy,” he said shortly. “Mary will do.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Mary said dryly, though a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “It’s nice to know I’m appreciated.”

“I told you to come alone.”

“And as you can see, I disregarded your request.”

“It wasn’t a request! Look, Sherlock -” Greg broke off, glancing at Mary and deciding to switch tactics. “I know you like having someone to talk to at crime scenes, but couldn’t you, I don’t know, have found someone who was…”

He trailed off.

“Not pregnant?” Mary supplied. Greg felt a flush creep up the back of his neck. 

“Well - yeah,” he admitted. “Look, it’s freezing and we’re standing out here in the rain. You’ll get ill. And I’m sure there are other places you’d rather be.”

“Not really,” Mary said cheerfully. “Olivia’s with the sitter, John’s at work, and I’m not showing yet. I need to get out while I still look like a normal human being instead of like I swallowed a planet. What have you got?”

Sherlock gave Greg a smug look that he knew only too well. Sighing, he waved them on to the body. 

 

It was still raining when Greg left the Yard later that night, and flashes of light off in the distance were ominous signs of an incoming storm. Strong gusts of wind suggested that the front was fast approaching, and Greg hurried to the car park with his head bent low and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. He was halfway home when he muttered, “Fuck it,” turned the car around, and headed instead to Baker Street. 

There hadn’t been a time in the past three weeks when Greg had left the Yard before dinnertime. He saw Sherlock infrequently as it was, given both their caseloads. In the past month, however, he had only seen Sherlock a  handful of times, and more often than not they were conversing over a dead body rather than a pillow.

He let himself into 221B with the key Sherlock had given him on the day he’d moved in nine years ago. Greg had used it only for practical purposes before Sherlock’s death. Later, after Sherlock’s resurrection and when it became clear that what had always been a low simmer between them had blossomed into something a good deal more intense, he had used the key for less innocent visits. 

Those, too, had tapered off in recent weeks. And, to be honest, Greg had little more on his mind at the moment apart from a solid night’s rest. But he always slept better with Sherlock at his side, and it had been too long since they had last shared a bed. 

He shed his coat once inside the flat, toed off his shoes, and made his way in the dark to the bedroom. Sherlock was already asleep. Greg could make out his silhouette, curled up on the right side of the bed even though Greg wasn’t there to take up the left. 

Greg changed into tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt by the light of the occasional lightning strike, and the storm was nearly on top of them by the time he pushed back the bedclothes and prepared to crawl into bed.

“No,” Sherlock said suddenly, and Greg froze for a moment, startled. 

“Thought you were asleep,” he whispered. He slid under the blankets, but when he tried to roll closer Sherlock held out a hand. 

“You’ll wake her,” he accused softly, and it took Greg a moment to realise what he meant.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered. He could see now that there was a dim shape curled up against Sherlock’s chest, and that could only be one person - John and Mary’s five-year-old daughter. “You have Olivia this weekend.”

“I _did_ tell you,” Sherlock said in irritation. “John and Mary left after John’s shift today. They’re at Harry’s for the weekend.”

“Sorry, I -”

“Forgot.”

“Well, yeah.”

Sherlock snorted. “Forgive me if I’m not surprised.”

Greg bristled. “Look, things have been busy lately, all right? I forgot John and Mary were going out of town.”

“You seem to have a permanent case of selective memory. You might want to have that checked out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Of course.”

Greg sighed. “What’s she doing in the bed, anyway? Are there spiders in the upstairs room again?”

Sherlock glared at him. “She’s afraid of the storm. It took me an hour to get her to calm down. And if you wake her because you won’t _stop talking_ , I will personally disembowel you.”

“Sorry, sorry.” 

Greg settled down on his side of the bed and pulled the blankets up, warding off the persistent chill of 221B. Olivia muttered something in her sleep, and he smoothed a hand gently over her fine hair. He hadn’t seen much of her lately. She was growing like a weed, and looked more and more like her mother every day. Greg wondered if she would receive her father’s athleticism. They already knew whose mouth she would inherit - her first word had been _murder_ , and the blame for that rested squarely on her godfather’s shoulders. 

Sherlock had fallen asleep again, his exhales whistling past slightly parted lips. Greg leaned over and kissed his forehead, moving carefully so as not to wake Olivia, and then settled down for what he hoped was at least eight solid hours of sleep.

 

It was still storming at dawn, and for a moment Greg thought the noise outside was what woke him. Then he realised that Sherlock was gripping his arm, steel-grey eyes alert and wary. 

“What is it?” Greg asked in an undertone, instantly uneasy.

“Someone in the kitchen,” Sherlock said quietly. Greg’s heart rate kicked into high gear.

“Gun?”

“Bedside table.”

Greg reached for it just as a thunderclap shook the flat. Olivia woke with a start, and her face crumpled instantly once she realised that the storm was still raging.

“ _Shit_ ,” Sherlock muttered. He quickly pulled her against his chest, trying to quiet her. Greg rolled out of bed, shoving the gun in his waistband before venturing out into the kitchen. 

“Oh, bloody hell,” Greg said in exasperation as he laid eyes on the intruder. He sighed, and then called over his shoulder, “It’s only your idiot brother.”

“Ah, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft greeted smoothly. Greg pulled the bedroom door shut and padded into the living room, where Mycroft was seated in Sherlock’s usual chair. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Yes, you are,” Greg said in annoyance. “Get out.”

“I was hoping to speak to Sherlock.”

“He’s asleep,” Greg said shortly. 

“He isn’t,” Mycroft said, eternally smug. “You were just talking to him, or am I mistaken about that?”

“He’s bloody exhausted, Mycroft,” Greg said, irritated. “Quite frankly, so am I. And Olivia’s a wreck. None of us had a good night. If you have anything to say to him, it can be done later.”

“I assure you, I didn’t come all the way here to get told what I may and may not do by my brother’s… bed-warmer.” Mycroft got to this feet and moved towards the kitchen. Greg blocked his way. “Stand aside, Gregory.”

“The name’s Greg,” he snapped. “And I’ll have you know that Sherlock and I have been together for nearly three years now, so call me his _bed-warmer_ one more time and I’ll  -”

“Considering the number of days you’ve actually seen one another, it’s more a matter of months that you’ve been together,” Mycroft interrupted, a small smirk playing about his features. “Insignificant, really. You can’t even be bothered to remember your anniversary, or when Olivia’s coming to visit. _Or_ that today’s Sherlock’s birthday.”

Greg’s stomach sank and for a moment he went cold with the awful realisation. Not that Sherlock had ever seemed to want his birthday recognised, but Greg had always made a point of it before. He fought to keep his face neutral, as he would not give Mycroft the satisfaction of his embarrassment. 

“You think Sherlock gives a shit about any of that?” he snarled. “Do you think any of that has meaning for him? He’d tell you that dates are meaningless and insignificant. What matters is that I am there for him, and he knows it. What matters is that when he is at his lowest, _I’m_ the one he calls. What matters is that he’s rude, insufferable, and not at all likeable, but I will always love him. Now get out. He’ll call you when he’s ready to talk.”

“He’s going to grow bored of you,” Mycroft said, no longer looking amused. His mouth was a thin line. “Sooner or later, you won’t be enough to hold his attention.”

Greg snorted. “You think you can rattle me, you oaf? Do you really think I’m so insecure that I’d believe for a moment that Sherlock is with me for any reason other than he wants to be? Tell me the last time Sherlock did something he had no desire to. Go on. I’m listening.”

When Mycroft said nothing, Greg continued in a low voice, “I don’t care about the future, I care about now. And right here, _right now_ , he is in my life. And I’m _honored_.”

It took everything Greg had not to punch Mycroft when he sniffed, said, “I’ll return later this afternoon. Good day, Gregory,” and departed with a sly smile. He stood there breathing heavily for some moments, balling his hands into fists and then forcing them to relax. 

“You give me too much credit.”

Greg turned around to see Sherlock leaning casually against the doorframe, his blue dressing gown thrown on over his pyjamas. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and he appeared faintly amused.

“How long have you been standing there?” Greg asked wearily. Sherlock lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

“Long enough.” He narrowed his eyes, considering Greg. “Associating with me is no honour.”

“It is to me,” Greg said. He passed a hand over the back of his neck. “Not that I show it well. God, I’m a shit boyfriend, aren’t I? I can’t fucking believe I forgot your birthday.”

“Like I care. You just tossed my brother out of my flat. As far as birthday presents go, that’s right up there with the locked-room case you gave me two years ago.” Sherlock crooked his finger, and Greg crossed the room to him. They kissed briefly. “Come back to bed.”

“How’s Liv?”

“Asleep,” Sherlock said. Exhaustion tugged at the corners of his mouth and made his face look drawn. “Though for how much longer is anyone’s guess."

"The weather will clear soon," Greg said bracingly. "It's only a matter of time before the front passes."

"You sound very sure of that," Sherlock said, almost grimly, and Greg suddenly wasn't sure if they were talking about the weather anymore. His expression quickly cleared, and he added, "Let's savour the quiet while we can. She'll be up soon. Come on. Bed.”

“Hey.” Greg grabbed Sherlock’s hand as he turned away and pulled him close. He nuzzled the side of Sherlock’s face. “Let’s move in together.”

“Now?”

“Well. You know. In the next few weeks.”

Sherlock snorted. “Overcompensating, Lestrade.”

"Do you think?”

"Yes."

"I suppose." Greg sighed, conceding defeat. “I’ll get better at this.”

Sherlock actually laughed. “No, you won’t.”

“It’d help to know when our anniversary is,” Greg pointed out. “I didn’t even know we had one. This just sort of… happened.”

“March nineteenth,” Sherlock answered promptly. 

Greg wracked his brain. “Was that - erm - dinner at that fancy Italian place?”

“It was the day you pulled me out of the Thames, drove me home, and kissed me on the staircase.” Sherlock smirked. “And, incidentally, it happens to also be the day prior to my birth date.”

“Oh, right.” Greg’s head ached. He really was complete rubbish at this stuff, though it wasn’t for lack of caring. “God, I’m an arse. Your brother’s right - I don’t know why you put up with me. Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his chest. He pressed their mouths together in a lingering, gentle kiss, his light morning stubble rasping against Greg’s upper lip. 

“Don’t you dare listen to Mycroft,” Sherlock said quietly when he pulled away. “The honour is _mine_. It always has been.”

Outside, the storm was beginning to abate. The rain was a mere shower against the windows, and the thunder was receding. When they returned to the bed, Olivia woke briefly, but only long enough for her to cuddle up to Greg’s chest. Sherlock settled on his side behind Greg and wrapped an arm around his waist, and they slept through the rest of the storm.


End file.
